Sixth grade is a year no one wants to remember. There were plenty of embarrassing moments, a whole bunch of bad humor that makes me cringe, and a lot of crushes. Sixth grade was also the year you could participate in school sports. I enjoyed running, so I decided, why not? I’ll join track.

A couple of my friends joined and overall we had a great team. The eighth graders were inhumanly fast, the seventh graders were really fast, and the sixth graders were fast. We practiced for days and days, preparing for our first meet. When the day of the meet came, naturally, I was super nervous. Even though we were just warming up, I felt pterodactyls in my stomach.

I wanted to impress everyone and win my events against the two other towns participating. Naturally, because 6th grade was the youngest grade to do sports, the sixth grade girls started first. Not to brag or anything, but I was pretty good for a 12 year old. So, of course I had to start first.

As the man who signaled us to race was explaining the rules, I couldn’t hear anything but the pounding of my heart and the screams of the crowd. Overeager to win and super conscious about my surroundings, I listen for the gunshot and *BANG* off I go! I was in the lead by far when I glimpsed the guy I liked and fell head over heels on the track. Literally. I tripped in front of about 100 people. I still cringe/cry/sigh about that event to this day. Although I came in third, I lost my pride and everything.